


Wrong Number

by randomscientist



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 13:54:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9237887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomscientist/pseuds/randomscientist
Summary: Two of the times when Sherlock lied:- “Wrong number.” He says to the young voice that doesn’t address him as Mr Holmes. But he tilts his head upwards and tries not to blink. He books a flight.- “No, I’ve only just arrived.” His tired eyes relax infinitesimally in the morning light. He doesn’t move from his kneeling position beside her, the smell of the disinfectant-filled air becoming just that bit more bearable as he presses his lips to her pale knuckles.





	

**Author's Note:**

> One possible version of [5] and [6] in [Lies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9094912). Told from the perspective of a boy whose existence was unknown to Sherlock until an unexpected phone call.

It wasn’t quite as straightforward as a simple Google search, but Nero had found the number eventually. The one of the Consulting Detective of Baker Street, London. He’d been certain Mr Sherlock Holmes was the common denominator – the explanation for his mother’s habit of acquiring and selectively accumulating UK newspapers, the source of that very specific smile and sometimes sad look of hers when she reached certain articles. She only read them when she thought Nero was in another room, but he could be very discreet.

He’d known for a while now, his conjecture confirmed ever since he’d spotted that picture (the man even had _his_ curly locks of hair) in a copy of the London Evening Standard, amongst the pile of newspapers that he’d took out (again) when his mother was at work. She’d had to have important reasons for never contacting Mr Holmes, and Nero had refrained from bringing it up.

But today, today was different, and mum would understand.

He furiously held his hoodie sleeve against his eyes. He tried to take deep breaths like his mother used to tell him to. He spent a precious hour constructing his speech before dialling _that_ number.

He finally heard it, the deep voice that should’ve been so unfamiliar and yet..not. It sounded like..like _everything_. He wasn’t quick enough to stop the tears this time, nor was he able to draw back the word tumbling out:

“Dad.”

That wasn’t part of his speech, and he should really –

“Dad, I..Mum, she doesn’t know that I know but she, she would’ve wanted you here, _I_ want you here, I don’t – ”

His prepared draft never vocalised itself.

He was so quickly cut off though, and so tersely.

Faith is a dangerous thing, as his mother would’ve reminded him by now – she didn’t, not this time, not even when he put on his best pleading expression (he didn’t even have to try and make it seem real this time). She wouldn’t even open her eyes.

And so he sat back down on the floor and hugged his knees. Leaning against the side of the hospital bed, and holding the still busy-toned phone to his chest, he asked Faith to stay.

Because from what little the two icy cold words gave away, there was an unmissable tremble kept at bay.

…

 _And perhaps, perhaps everything will be okay_ , thought Nero as he buried his face into shirt fabric and warmth, as he relaxed against the strong arms lifting him up. It was still dark, but the morning would come.


End file.
